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256 The Point of View
barn and harness the horse and brush out
the carriage; then I have to hitch the horse
and return to the house to wash my hands.
After that I must hunt up my gloves and
make a list of the errands the whole household
flocks to suggest to me. In the end,
after I have unhitched the horse and climbed
in, it is not to the village at all that I go, but
to the town in the other direction where the
errands can be better accomplished. Life
becomes hideously complicated the minute
you own a horse."
Fortunately for my friend's peace of mind,
if for no other conceivable reason, his various
horses were always falling ill from lack
of exercise. He protested that this was not
his fault.
"I haven't taken a walk in three weeks,"
he declared sadly; "nor yet have I been able
to write a paper I had in mind or read a
book. I seem to have done nothing but
drive and drive and drive, exercising the
horse."
(He always spoke of it that way—"the
horse"—as if it were an impersonal cosmic
creation like the sky or the sea.)
However this might be, the fact remained
that the local veterinary knew his way
blindfold to my friend's barn. And when he
was in command and "the horse" was subject
to his ministrations a wonderful peace
and freedom possessed my friend.
But the veterinary was skilful and "the
horse" possessed of a sound constitution;
and my friend's vacations were never long
enough to allow him to make any headway
with his paper or book. All too soon he and
the horse were in harness together again at
opposite ends of the reins. It took a brave
resolution, a really magnificent effort of
will, to make a permanent end of the situation.
"I did not see how I was going to get
along without the creature," he confessed.
"There were all those errands, a daily crop.
I saw myself, horseless, devoting my life to
trudging steadily back and forth between
my house and the village with a pack-basket
over my shoulders. But my slavery could
not be worse than it was. So one fine day I
sold the horse, and I never have bought another."
"And you have not been sorry?"
"Sorry?" He made an eloquent, expansive
gesture indicative of a scope and
freedom too vast for words. It appeared
that, having disposed of his horse, he now
found himself at liberty to traverse the constellations.
THESE two illustrations throw light on
the universal nature and function of
limitation. It simplifies and co-ordinates
life; it gives time for action; like the
bed of a river, it makes something definite
and effective out of a diffusion.
But of course the matter is not
essentially one of books or horses
or any of the world's material
The Conservation
of the Spirit
chances. It concerns the spirit; and that
has frequently to forego traits which it
might like to cultivate, qualities which almost
seem to be thrust upon it. A person
committed to any great cause has to shut
his eyes to a good many wholesome aspects,
worthy enough in themselves but distracting
and weakening to him. He must not
laugh at that which he worships, innocent
though the laughter of a non-worshipper
may be. He must always hate that which
interferes with his particular ideal, although
another person may maintain a just indifference.
No one may manfully be mocking
and reverent at the same moment, angry
and tolerant. Whoever tries or allows himself
to be so, offends both God and Mammon.
As for the deliberate inducing of qualities
which one has been lucky enough to be born
without, the effort is as absurd as it is, fortunately,
futile. A young man grows up
undistracted by a sense of humor. That is
no disgrace; and, though it may involve a
loss, it works a solid compensation of simplicity
and directness. For Heaven's sake,
let the good fellow alone ! If he is bewildered
by the suggestion that he take his experience
somewhat less literally, he will very
likely fail to take it at all—he will fumble
the whole thing. Congratulate, envy him if
you will—no humorist's eye has that single
beam—but let him alone. The world has
need of him.
Fortunately, as I said above, these efforts
to change individual temperament are seldom
successful. A quiet person who tries
to make himself a more stimulating companion
for some one whom he loves loses
the power to soothe and charm which used
to be his peculiar function, and, on the other
hand, becomes an insufferable chatterbox.
It is better to be completely oneself, expanding
snugly and fully within the sheltering